


My Name is Ozymandias, King of Kings

by Irollforinitiative



Series: Theirs Is Not to Reason Why [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Fluff, M/M, More like at the same time as reichenbach, Post Reichenbach, bit of both, ish, richenfeels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:52:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irollforinitiative/pseuds/Irollforinitiative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reichenbach Falls happens.  Mycroft reacts and deals with the news.  Greg takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Name is Ozymandias, King of Kings

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE!!!!!!!   
> If you're not reading the poems at the end notes of each part of this series I recommend going back and doing so. The titles are chosen for their significance to the events in the chapter as well as the chapter's place in the greater series. Therefore, please read the titles and poems thoughtfully to be in on the inside track of understanding.

_Greg shivered and groaned. “I shouldn’t have brought clothes, should I? We’re just going to spend the whole weekend in bed shagging each other senseless, aren’t we?”_

_Mycroft rolled on top of Greg and kissed him slowly and thoroughly. “Hopefully.”_

_And they did._

 

Greg didn’t pause when he heard the news.  He didn’t think. He didn’t pick up the phone.  He just ran.  Upon reaching the street and finding it packed with cars, he didn’t even attempt to wait for a cab.  He took off for the Diogenes Club where, at this time of day, Mycroft would surely be. It was only a few blocks and between eating healthier whenever he was with Mycroft, and the large quantities of sex they’d been having, he had been getting in fairly good shape during the last three months.  When he reached the club he was, nevertheless, winded. He burst into the door and fought to catch his breath.  He knew better than to actually say anything and his panting would alert Mycroft to his presence soon enough.  

 

Mycroft looked up when he heard the commotion.  As soon as he saw Greg he got up quickly and dragged him by the elbow into his private study.  Mycroft slammed the door behind them. “Gregory, this had better be a damned emergency.” Greg panted for air and looked up at Mycroft, his face tight.  The anger fell away from Mycroft’s face. “Oh God.  What happened?”

 

Greg had his breath mostly caught and reached out for Mycroft’s hand. “It’s Sherlock.”

 

“Oh goodness. What has he gotten himself into this time? Arrested again? Or attempting to get himself blown up by Moriarty again?”

 

“Mycroft he’s…” Greg swallowed the lump in his throat, “he’s dead.”

 

Mycroft shook his head and blanched, his grip going tight on Greg’s hand. “No. He’s too smart for that.  Too manipulative. Too bloody clever.”

 

“It was Moriarty.  Somehow he had personal information about Sherlock.  He…he drove Sherlock to jump off of St. Bart’s.” Greg’s voice broke.

 

Mycroft’s mind went entirely blank as he realized what had happened.  That it was all his fault. He didn’t remember moving, but somehow he ended up sitting on the floor, half in Greg’s lap.  Greg was murmuring that it was okay.  Mycroft frowned and went to snap that he knew it was alright, but it came out as a sob that was dampened by the rivers of moisture on his cheeks.  It had been a very long time since he had cried.  It felt…unnatural. Mycroft focused on that feeling until he could calm down enough to speak. “It’s all my fault, Greg.”

 

“No.  It’s not.  It’s Moriarty’s.” Greg tried to tamp down the panic in his voice.  In nine months, the most he had ever seen Mycroft emote was during sex. Even that was mildly controlled and purposeful.  This was an entire loss of control.  It terrified Greg to see his boyfriend that way.  So he held him and rocked back and forth, doing all he knew how to do.

 

Mycroft shook his head and wiped at his face, feeling like a child again. “No.  No, I told Moriarty everything.  When we had him in custody, we needed information about some of his dealings.  Only way to get him to talk was to tell him about Sherlock.  ‘S my fault.”

 

Greg tried to not panic further as Mycroft’s language became much more like that of a young boy instead of the man he was.  A man who’s profession was speaking. “Hush.  Even if you told Moriarty everything you know about Sherlock, it was still him that made Sherlock….do it.  Come on.  You need to get out of here and go home.  I’ll take you.”

 

Mycroft nodded and let Greg help him up, still only dimly aware of his body. “John…oh God, John.  We must take find him.  I must apologize.”

 

“He’s with Sally is taking care of it all.  Just let me take care of you.”

 

“You came here first.” It wasn’t a question as Mycroft looked at Greg and thought back to his entrance.  Greg didn’t respond immediately as they slipped into the silent area and out of the back entrance, not passing by the sitting room. There was a car waiting, bless Anthea, and they slipped in. 

 

Once they were inside Greg held Mycroft to his chest and kissed his hair.  “Of course I did.  He’s your brother.  Jibes and anger or not, he’s still family.”

 

Mycroft nodded and straightened, wiping his face, as the car slowed and the door opened again.  When Anthea slipped inside, he sniffed again and sank back against Greg’s side.  “I assume you heard.”

 

She nodded, her mouth tight, “Yes, sir.  What can I do?”

 

  1. I…I cannot believe my brother let himself be bested.” Mycroft’s voice broke and Greg held him tighter as Anthea started clicking away on her phone. Before long they made it to Mycroft’s building and Greg secreted him upstairs. 



 

Greg quickly got Mycroft changed and tucked into bed to sleep. When he came back out, Anthea was busily typing on her computer and Greg suddenly felt entirely useless.  He sat down on the sofa and started making calls.  After he was sure John had Harry with him and Mrs. Hudson wasn’t alone he let his eyes drift closed, the pressure and weight of the only partially complete day pulling him into sleep.  He was awoken some hours later by a yelp.  In his sleep addled state he recognized it as Mycroft and stood up quickly, eyes roaming for his boyfriend.  What he found was a once again dressed Mycroft tightly hugging Anthea and grinning. Greg frowned and rushed over.

 

“What is it? What happened? Why smiling?”

 

Mycroft chuckled and gently rolled his eyes at Greg. “Use proper English my dear.  I just received good news.  Sherlock isn’t dead.”

 

Greg frowned and tried to process the information as Anthea slipped out and Mycroft calmed his emotions once more. “But…the body.  It was confirmed.”

 

“Yes and I looked over the case files and already had doubts.  And then I saw this.” He held his phone out.  On the screen was a text that read “Not dead.  Don’t contact.  Try and be less fat when I return.”

 

Greg frowned. A text like that was uniquely Sherlock.  The dig was as good as a signature.  But the timestamp read three minutes ago. But he was dead. Mycroft seemed to understand Greg’s issue and sat him down, explaining the details.  He walked Greg through the inconsistencies; the phone call, sending John away, Moriarty’s death. Greg nodded as he slowly understood. “So…is Moriarty dead?”

 

“I don’t know.  I will try and look into that.  It’s the least I can do to help my baby brother.”

 

“You really do care for him, despite the bickering, don’t you?” he ran his fingers through Mycroft’s slightly bed-mussed hair.

 

Mycroft looked down. “I…I must apologize for my behavior earlier today.  It was a complete loss of control and entirely out of character for me.  I am embarrassed that I was so affected, and that it took me until now to even have the logic necessary to look at the case and realize it was a fake. It was—”

 

“It was an acceptable reaction to the news your brother is dead.” Greg cut Mycroft off.

 

“Yes, but he’s not dead.”

 

Greg nodded slowly. “I guess not.  If he…when he comes back, I’m going to chin him for this.  It worried me so much seeing you so sad.” He reached out and stroked his thumb across Mycroft’s cheek.

 

Mycroft leaned down and kissed Greg, his hands promptly finding the buttons of Greg’s shirt as he pulled them back into the bedroom.  Nearly an hour later, covered in the sheen of sweat that reminded them both of the other’s continuing life and lying with hips apart to accommodate overly sensitive and softening cocks, Mycroft and Greg basked in the contentment of being in one another’s arms. Mycroft had a strangely somber look on his face instead of his usual sated grin and Greg worried.

 

“What’s wrong love?” he kissed the edge of Mycroft’s mouth, trying to kiss away the expression. 

 

It worked and Mycroft smiled and took a deep breath before speaking. “I just realized that I no longer desire to live the way I currently do.” He glanced at Greg’s confused frown and continued. “After a lifetime of desiring privacy and independence, I find that my greatest desire is cohabitation.”

 

Greg shook his head and grimaced. “Mycroft, I just had an orgasm. Inside your beautiful arse, might I add. Please use smaller words.”

 

“Move in with me.” Mycroft’s grin spread as wide as the Cheshire cat’s. 

 

For a moment Greg was sure his heart had stopped beating. When he took another breath in it was deep and shaky. “What?”

 

“I want you to live here, with me, if you’d like to.  Would you like to?” Mycroft’s cheeks burned a little through his post coital flush as fear and embarrassment crept in. He wasn’t used to being unsure of himself.

 

Greg beamed. “Yeah.  I’d really like that. A lot.” Mycroft grinned again and pulled Greg close, kissing his face all over.  After a few minutes, when they broke for air, a thought slid into Greg’s mind. “Why now?”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Just…why now? Right after you thought Sherlock was dead.  I don’t want you to ask just because you’re pleased Sherlock’s still alive and you don’t have a way of expressing it save for this.  I don’t want the excitement to wear off and for you to regret…” he trailed off.

 

Mycroft paused for a moment and smiled softly. “No.  It is not that.  I’ve been considering this for a while, but I continued to cling to my habituation of living alone.  But then my mental constitution failed me today.  And you took care of me. Habits can be changed.  The love I felt when you came bursting into the club after running there because _you_ wanted to be the one to tell me was irreplaceable.”

 

Greg smiled and held Mycroft tight to push back the tension in his throat at hearing Mycroft speak so candidly about his feelings. “Okay.  I just wanted to be sure.”

 

“So you’ll move here?”

 

“You can have your people bring my things over in the morning.”

 

Mycroft grinned and pressed Greg onto his back, kissing him thoroughly and starting them down a path that led to very little sleep and much more sweat and mess than Mycroft generally preferred.  But it was worth it.  They had each other, Sherlock was alive; all was right with the world.

 

It was three weeks later when even more good news arrived.  Mycroft was sitting in the kitchen as Greg busied himself actually decorating the austere flat when Mycroft’s phone went off.  Mycroft gasped as he read the text.

 

“She’s found him.”

 

Greg looked up, worried. “What?”

 

Mycroft spoke as he typed. “Anthea. She thinks she’s found Moriarty. Oh thank goodness.”

 

Greg smiled.  The guilt of telling Moriarty about Sherlock’s life had still been weighing heavily on Mycroft, even though Sherlock was still alive. Greg would be happy to see that burden removed from Mycroft’s shoulders. “So what are you going to do?”

 

“She’s going to track him until she is sure.  Then I will send people in.”

 

Greg nodded and grinned.  “Good.  I’m glad you won’t be going.”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Come now, my love, you know I detest mess.”

 

It was another two weeks before they became aware that something was wrong.  At dinner Mycroft looked at his phone, his face pale and drawn. “Greg, Anthea hasn’t checked in for the last 72 hours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Percy Bysshe Shelly's poem "Ozymandias"
> 
>  
> 
> I met a traveller from an antique land  
> Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone  
> Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,  
> Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown  
> And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command  
> Tell that its sculptor well those passions read  
> Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,  
> The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.  
> And on the pedestal these words appear:  
> `My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:  
> Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'  
> Nothing beside remains. Round the decay  
> Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,  
> The lone and level sands stretch far away".


End file.
